


Harmony and Contrast

by Akumeoi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumeoi/pseuds/Akumeoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France tries to explain to England why he is attracted to him. England is not ready to hear it. At first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part one (English-only version)

It was raining lightly, but France didn’t mind. The breeze that accompanied the rain was light and pleasant, ruffling his long blonde hair without threatening to snatch away his purple umbrella. It was dark and quiet on the small country road he was walking down, a very pleasant place for someone in the mood for solitude. Although France was a rather gregarious nation, he was glad of the peace, for once. After all, he had a lot on his mind. 

He was visiting England, evidently. Why? No real reason, except for something that had been bothering him for a long time, something he should have addressed back in the 1800s. 

Arriving at England’s house, he used the brass lion-head knocker to announce his arrival. When England didn’t immediately answer, he knocked again, impatiently. 

This time, the door was opened. England was standing there, still dressed in daytime clothes even though it was late at night. He looked irritated.

“What are you doing here, François? It’s almost midnight.” He sniffed. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

France gave a slight bow, almost showering England with drops from his umbrella. “Ah, my friend, I was in the area and I had the desire to see you. It’s as simple as that,” he said easily.

“Huh. Knocking on my door at midnight. Bloody cheek,” England grumbled. “You could’ve been coming to announce an invasion or something, for all I know. I suppose you want to come in?”

“Yes, I’d like to spend some time with you. If it’s alright.” France smiled charmingly.

“Oh, it’s fine, I wasn’t going to sleep now or anything,” Arthur said, standing aside to let François into his living room. François, ignoring the jab, shook his umbrella and folded it neatly, then placed it in the umbrella stand by the door. 

“Want me to put the kettle on?” Arthur asked. Unbuttoning his coat, François smiled and accepted, though he didn’t plan on attempting to eat any pastries Arthur might provide. Unless they were from a French-style bakery, of course. 

“Seriously, though, why are you here? You might be a bit of a flake sometimes, but you’re not that random,” England said suspiciously, giving France a warning glare as he almost set his wet jacket down on the couch. 

“It’s not important,” France said airily, depositing his coat on the coat-hook obligingly. “Arthur, haven’t you noticed that the weather is absolutely wonderful?”

“It’s raining,” England said flatly. France didn’t know why it mattered to him, seeing as that was the usual state for this country. Now that his furniture was no longer in danger of being dripped on, England proceeded to the kitchen to start making tea. France sat down on the sofa in the living room and raised his voice to call into the next room.

“It’s true. But the temperature is perfect. Have you been outside lately? You look peaky. You should get some air.”

“What are you, my mother?” England yelled back. “I’m not taking a bloody nature walk at twelve AM.” 

France laughed and started reminiscing. Or boasting, really. “Of course, it’s even nicer in Provence right now. At the Cours Mirabeau, the sun glows through the leaves of the trees along the terrace of the Café-des-Deux-Garçons. They’ll start selling sunflowers in the market. If I went into the woods, I could find _muguets_. Ah…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Arthur said, bringing a tea tray into the living room and setting it down on the table in front of François. “We all know you’re obsessed with yourself, you don’t have to remind me. If you want to talk about plants, you should go visit the Netherlands, he’ll be glad to gab about tulips all day long.” He seated himself opposite France in a high-backed chair and started pouring tea. France was disappointed to see that there were no pastries at all, not even the burned scones England normally produced in great quantities.

“The plants aren’t important. I’m trying to open your eyes to this beautiful world,” he said, half-joking and half-serious, trying half-heartedly to steer the conversation in a more productive direction. It was always hard, though when dealing with England, who would sooner argue with France than carry on a simple conversation with him. He tried the tea and found that it was, as usual, quite delicious. England’s one culinary accomplishment.

“What does that even mean?” England complained, completely missing the point. He picked up his teacup and took a delicate sip, which France found humorously incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Unpleasant wooly argyle sweater, slight scowl, and of course, those eyebrows. “I don’t need a bloody art lesson. I’ve got Bridget Riley, Francis Bacon, and Roger Fry. And a bunch of other people.”

“I know. That’s why I’m certain you’ll understand me,” France said, grinning, at once making a poke at his friend but also trying to be generous.

“Oh, alright. Go ahead. Don’t think I’m falling for those dumb compliments, though.” Naturally, England had seen right through him.

France looked England straight in the eyes over the rim of his teacup. “Sometimes, Arthur, I even find you beautiful.”

England nearly spit out his tea. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said angrily. “If you’re trying to make a pass at me, you had better stop now before you embarrass yourself. I won’t believe for a second that you actually find me attractive.” He was getting angry, and France wasn’t sure how to calm him down except by impressing the truth upon him.

“Harmony and contrast,” France said reflectively. “All beauty comes from those two things. All nations contain both; we’re born that way.” He put down his teacup so he could gesture at himself, then at England. “Myself, I’m a harmonious being, but I don’t have enough contrast. You, England… there’s a contrast between your beautiful eyes and your horrible eyebrows. But your eyes themselves contain harmony. Your beauty comes from qualities that other people would consider ugly.”

François knew he could have made a better attempt to explain his feelings. But he wasn’t really used to talking about them seriously. With other people, it was all flowery words of love and embellished clichés. The words he used on others were a far cry from what he actually wanted to convey to Arthur. Which was that Arthur was interesting precisely because he was different. That he, François, in his eternal search for the beautiful had accidentally fallen in love with someone who wasn’t.

“Now you’re just making fun of me!” England said, slamming his teacup down – not hard enough to chip it, but hard enough to rattle the saucer. But for a moment – as England’s eyes flashed – France saw the nation who had come sailing into Dives-Sur-Mer with an eye-patch and a grudge. And there it was – that flash of attraction that was too strong to ignore, that lightning-bolt feeling that France had thought he was far too old for.

“No, my friend, I’m totally serious. I find you attractive. You attract me, Arthur. You can’t tell me that you didn’t notice.” France frowned for a moment. “Does it bother you?” 

“Of course it bothers me,” Arthur said indignantly. “I don’t know how you expect me to believe it, you bloody fool. And even if I did believe it, what the hell do you expect me to do about it? If you think you’re going to add me to your laundry list of lovers, you’re mistaken, François.” 

France picked up his spoon and started twirling it between his fingers. “You wound me. I know that in our childhood I said some things that were… indelicate, but you know that I wasn’t serious. Besides, I haven’t asked you for anything. I just wanted you to know my sentiments. And perhaps I was curious about yours.” 

His scowl deepening, England replied curtly, “Yeah, well you know them now, don’t you? I’m not interested.” 

“Are you certain?” France said, somewhat sadly, setting the spoon neatly down next to his saucer. He knew England as well as he knew himself – or so he thought – and although he had expected it to be difficult to convince him, he hadn’t expected it to be this hard. England felt something other than friendship for him, he was sure of it; he was an expert on this kind of thing. 

“Of course I bloody well am, you damn frog,” England snorted. “God, you must be drunker than I thought.” 

“Ah, it’s too bad. I will comfort myself from this failure with some of your lovely citizens. Perhaps with Mademoiselle Willoughby or Mademoiselle Beckinsale. I’ve had my eye on her for a long time, that one. _Quelle coquette_!” France smirked at the thought. 

“Keep your meaty paws off my famous actresses,” England said, picking up his teacup again now that they were back to their usual banter. “See, I knew you weren’t serious. I remember how you were with Jeanne D’Arc. I don’t believe you really loved anyone before or since. You just flit from person to person because you like the sex, you pretentious twat.” 

It was true. François couldn’t deny it, nor did he want to. The part about the sex, anyway. It was fun! But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t want a fixed relationship. It just had to be with someone who he really cared for, and was attracted to romantically. There hadn’t been too many of those over the course of his life. He knew there had been next to none in Arthur’s.

Arthur did know that François cared for him… right? 

“I’ve grown up a lot since then,” he sighed. “In the absence of love, it doesn’t harm anyone if I amuse myself a little. I admit it, I love the chase. But Arthur, I promise that if you chose me, I won’t look at any other man or woman. I’d be too fascinated by your eyebrows to divert my attention,” France laughed.

England missed the point entirely. “Stop talking about my damn eyebrows! Look, this is all very romantic, but I’ve already told you it’s not going to work on me. Can’t we just change the bloody subject already? I really don’t need to know about your weird fantasies of me.” He got rather red in the face as he talked. 

From that alone, France knew, he _knew_ that England wasn’t as indifferent to him as he was pretending. What was going wrong ?

“I was talking about your eyebrows precisely because they’re not romantic. I thought you’d take me more seriously if you saw that I wasn’t trying to gloss anything over,” France tried.

“Yeah fucking right.” Arthur said sullenly. He glared at François from under his eyebrows, his mouth set in a frown. France recognized that expression. It meant England wasn’t just angry and on the defensive, but hurt. François couldn’t imagine why this would be the case, because it certainly couldn’t be the eyebrow comments. They weren’t really out of the unusual.

François sighed. For a moment, he considered debating the point one more time. But he was already pushing his luck, and he didn’t want to make Arthur so angry that he would refuse to forget about this by morning. He knew that the friendship they had was precious. He had just hoped for something more… 

“I’m very sorry, my dear friend. I won’t say another word on the subject. Let’s forget it. I hope you’ll pardon me.”

“Uh-huh, I’ll think about it. You should probably go now. It’s late.”

The dismissal was absolute. France was shocked. He had never been kicked out of England’s house like this before. Booted out, yes. Thrown out at gunpoint, yes. But never quietly, angrily dismissed. 

“Of course, it’s no trouble. Good night. Thank you for the tea,” said France, ever courteous. 

“Yeah, yeah, good-bye, already.”

Under England’s suspicious gaze, France gathered up his coat and his umbrella. Opening the door, he found that it wasn’t raining anymore, so he wouldn’t have to bother with putting the coat back on before he walked out the door. He hesitated, then, turning back to England, who was still sitting on the couch, eyes narrowed. 

François didn’t know what possessed him, but he had to have the last word. “Just so you know, I’m not drunk. I haven’t touched a drop tonight,” he said softly. 

England stood up. “Get out of my house,” he snapped, his face turning red. Raising one hand, France inclined his head in resignation. England opened his mouth angrily, but before he could yell again, France had slowly and quietly shut the door with a little click. 

He turned away and walked into the cold, damp night, which was suddenly far less beautiful than it had been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, the French translations:  
> -Muguets are snow-drops  
> -"Quelle coquette" means something along the lines of "What a temptress" or "What a cutie"
> 
> Second, the historical references:  
> -Dives-Sur-Mer was a pirate port. England was a pirate. You can put two and two together.  
> -All the other stuff is real French and English stuff. You can Wikipedia or Google it. 
> 
> There will be a happier ending to this in part two. 
> 
> Initially I wrote this in French and English (I'm bi-lingual) so if France sounds a little weird... sorry. 
> 
> Lastly, some of the quotes I used were inspired by the movie _Vatel_. Here are the original quotes (and the [whole script](http://www.script-o-rama.com/movie_scripts/v/vatel-script-transcript-uma-thurman.html%20) if anyone cares): 
> 
> England: "Tell him... that both of us live with a terrible thing. The desire for the absolute. The sublime. The perfect. That’s why he flits from person to person, and that’s why I give myself to no one."
> 
> France: “Harmony and contrast. All beauty comes from those two things. You see, Arthur? Few objects are beautiful or ugly in themselves. To know that is the beginning of being an artist.”


	2. Part two (English-only version)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The better ending.

“Hey, France, remember that one time you told me you thought I was… beautiful?” England said hesitantly, not meeting France’s eyes. 

France’s heart lurched. “No, I completely forgot it,” he said sarcastically, trying to play it cool. The two of them were sitting in France’s living room, a just-opened bottle of red wine between them. The events to which England was referring had taken place about a year ago.

England made a strangled noise in his throat, so France quickly added, “Of course I remember!”

“Geez, no need to scare me like that, you jerk,” England complained. Enter his customary scowl. The corners of France’s mouth twitched with painful amused love at the sight of it. 

“I’m sure you’ll recover,” he said, thinking that if anyone was going to be mortally wounded tonight, it would be himself. There were plenty of ways this conversation could go, and some of them did not bear thinking about while sober. 

“Are you sure you weren’t drunk?” England said. 

France sighed. “Of course I’m sure. Don’t be such a Doubting Thomas.”

Hesitating again, England finally said, “Do you still feel that way?” 

“Roses bloom and roses fade, but beauty is eternal.” France was having trouble maintaining his nonchalance, but he could go on about roses any time. So that was where he took his refuge. 

“Does that mean yes? Just give me a straight answer, why don’t you?” England made no effort to disguise the irritation in his voice. 

France finally admitted, “Yes, that means yes. _Je t'aime encore._ ”

Arthur let out his breath in a huff. 

“France.” 

“Yes?”

France’s heart was beating fast, so fast he could hardly stand it. Would England… was he going to… was he going to tell France that he loved him to? Could France believe that such a wonderful thing might actually happen? It was hard to believe. This conversation had been simmering below the surface of their relationship for such a long time now…

“You’re a bloody wanker, you know that?”

 _And, it’s over_ , France thought dejectedly. England would not be his, so he’d have to forget his feelings and get on with it. Back to chasing various beautiful strangers. Faced with the dismissal of one angry man with bushy eyebrows, that suddenly seemed like a grey and uninteresting prospect. 

“Yes,” was all France could say. 

England looked down at their feet. He was much closer to France now, which didn’t make any sense. France was about to back away respectfully, when England said, “But I suppose I may have developed feelings for you anyway.”

“What? Really?”

“No, I like to flirt with everybody and their grandmother, the way you do,” England said, but the caustic bite of his voice wasn’t as harsh as usual.

“Excuse me, Arthur. I’ve never flirted with anyone’s grandmother, let alone yours,” France blurted out. England immediately made as if to take a step back, so France unthinkingly grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “Wait, wait. Hold on.”

Swallowing, England peered up at France from under his eyebrows. France released England’s wrist, putting one arm around his waist and using the other to cup his cheek.

“Come here,” he said, stroking England’s cheek with his thumb. England’s scowl had melted away, to be replaced with an expression of guarded anticipation, nervousness, and trust, all at the same time. As France pressed their bodies closer together, England slid both his arms around France’s waist. 

England closed his eyes, so France closed the final distance between them and kissed England’s lips, and again, and then England responded and kissed him back. 

A few minutes later, when both of them were panting and flushed, France’s neat curls mussed and England’s shirt untucked, England put his mouth to France’s ear and whispered, “ _François Bonnefoy, je t’aime._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason England switched to French at the end is because he's usually such a snob about using France's language, so if there were one thing he could bring his shy little self to do that might show France how much he actually cares, it's speak in French. I hope you don't need a translation for that. It's just "I love you" in French. ("Je t'aime encore" means I still love you, btw.)
> 
> Oh, and I headcanon that England can understand French because of the time it was the official language of his court. Besides, no proper gentleman's education would be complete without a little knowledge of French.
> 
> (But oh gog, France is so out of character ;A; I'm really sorry...)


	3. Part one (English and French version)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why? Because I needed to practice my French. If you spot any glaring errors, feel free to correct them in the comments.

It was raining lightly, but France didn’t mind. The breeze that accompanied the rain was light and pleasant, ruffling his long blonde hair without threatening to snatch away his purple umbrella. It was dark and quiet on the small country road he was walking down, a very pleasant place for someone in the mood for solitude. Although France was a rather gregarious nation, he was glad of the peace, for once. After all, he had a lot on his mind. 

He was visiting England. Why? No real reason, except for something that had been bothering him for a long time, something he should have addressed back in the 1800s. 

Arriving at England’s house, he used the brass lion-head knocker to announce his arrival. When England didn’t immediately answer, he knocked again, impatiently. 

This time, the door was opened. England was standing there, still dressed in daytime clothes even though it was late at night. He looked irritated.

“What are you doing here, François? It’s almost midnight.” He sniffed. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

France gave a slight bow, almost showering England with drops from his umbrella. “J’étais dans les parages et j’ai eu le désir de te voir. C’est aussi simple que ça,” he said easily.

“Huh. Knocking on my door at midnight. Bloody cheek,” England grumbled. “You could’ve been coming to announce an invasion or something, for all I know. I suppose you want to come in?”

“Oui, j’aimerais bien passer un peu de temps avec toi. Si ça ne te gêne pas.” France smiled charmingly.

“Oh, it’s fine, I wasn’t going to sleep now or anything,” Arthur said, standing aside to let François into his living room. François, ignoring the jab, shook his umbrella and folded it neatly, then placed it in the umbrella stand by the door. 

“Want me to put the kettle on?” Arthur asked. Unbuttoning his coat, François smiled and accepted, though he didn’t plan on attempting to eat any pastries Arthur might provide. Unless they were from a French-style bakery, of course. 

“Seriously, though, why are you here? You might be a bit of a flake sometimes, but you’re not that random,” England said suspiciously, giving France a warning glare as he almost set his wet jacket down on the couch. 

“Ce n’est pas important,” France said airily, depositing his coat on the coat-hook obligingly. “Arthur, n’as-tu pas remarqué que ce soir est absolument magnifique ?”

“It’s raining,” England said flatly. France didn’t know why it mattered to him, seeing as that was the usual state for this country. Now that his furniture was no longer in danger of being dripped on, England proceeded to the kitchen to start making tea. France sat down on the sofa in the living room and raised his voice to call into the next room.

“C’est vrai. Mais la température est parfaite. Ça fait longtemps que tu es sorti de la maison ? Tu devrais aller dehors.”

“What are you, my mother?” England yelled back. “I’m not taking a bloody nature walk at twelve AM.” 

France laughed and started reminiscing. Or boasting, really. “Bien sûr, c’est encore plus beau en Provence en ce moment. A la Cours Mirabeau, le soleil brille à travers les feuilles au long de la terrasse du Café-des-Deux-Garçons. Ils commencent à vendre des tournesols dans le marché. Dans les bois, je pourrais trouver des muguets. Ah…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Arthur said, bringing a tea tray into the living room and setting it down on the table in front of François. “We all know you’re obsessed with yourself, you don’t have to remind me. If you want to talk about plants, you should go visit the Netherlands, he’ll be glad to gab about tulips all day long.” He seated himself opposite France in a high-backed chair and started pouring tea. France was disappointed to see that there were no pastries at all, not even the burned scones England normally produced in great quantities.

“Les plantes elle-même ne sont pas très important. C’est de la beauté dont je parle,” he said, trying to steer the conversation in the direction he had intended from the start of the visit. He tried the tea and found that it was, as usual, quite delicious. England’s one culinary accomplishment.

“What does that even mean?” England complained, completely missing the point. He picked up his teacup and took a delicate sip, which France found humorously incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Unpleasant wooly sweater, slight scowl, and of course, those eyebrows. “I don’t need a bloody art lesson. I’ve got Bridget Riley, Francis Bacon, and Roger Fry. And a bunch of other people.”

“Je sais. C’est pourquoi je suis certain que tu me comprendras,” France said, grinning, at once making a poke at his friend but also trying to be generous.

“Oh, alright. Go ahead. Don’t think I’m falling for those dumb compliments, though.” Naturally, England had seen right through him.

France looked England straight in the eyes over the rim of his teacup. “Parfois, Arthur, je te trouves très beau.”

England nearly spit out his tea. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said angrily. “If you’re trying to make a pass at me, you had better stop now before you embarrass yourself. I won’t believe for a second that you actually find me attractive.” He was getting angry, and France wasn’t sure how to calm him down except by impressing the truth upon him.

“Honnêtement, c’est un peu d’une mystère,” France said reflectively. “D’habitude, je préfère les hommes plus raffinés, plus élégants que toi. Je sais que toute beauté, même la beauté physique, vient de l’accord et du contraste. Il y a un contraste définitif entre tes beaux yeux et tes sourcils affreux. Mais ce n’est pas assez. Le seul explication est, alors, que je suis amoureux de toi.”

François knew he could have made a better attempt to explain his feelings. But he wasn’t really used to talking about them seriously. With other people, it was all flowery words of love and embellished clichés. The words he used on others were a far cry from what he actually wanted to convey to Arthur. Which was that Arthur was interesting precisely because he was different. That he, François, in his eternal search for the beautiful, had accidentally fallen in love.

“Now you’re just making fun of me!” England said, slamming his teacup down – not hard enough to chip it, but hard enough to rattle the saucer. For a moment – as England’s eyes flashed – France saw the nation who had come sailing into Dives-Sur-Mer with an eye-patch and a grudge. And there it was – that flash of attraction that was too strong to ignore, that lightning-bolt feeling that France had thought he was far too old for.

“Non, je suis totalement sérieux. Je te trouve beau. Tu m’attires, Arthur. Tu ne peux pas me dire que tu ne l’as pas remarqué.” France frowned for a moment. “Est-ce que ça te dérange ?” 

“Of course it bothers me,” Arthur said indignantly. “I don’t know how you expect me to believe it, you bloody fool. And even if I did believe it, what the hell do you expect me to do about it? If you think you’re going to add me to your laundry list of lovers, you’re mistaken, François.” 

France picked up his spoon and started twirling it between his fingers. “Tu me blesses. Je sais que dans notre enfance je t’ai dit des choses un peu… indélicates, mais tu sais que je n’étais pas sérieux. En plus, je ne t’ai rien demandé. Je voulais juste que tu sache mes sentiments. Et peut-être que j’étais curieux à propos des tiens.” 

His scowl deepening, England replied curtly, “Yeah, well you know them now, don’t you? I’m not interested.” 

“Tu es certain?” France said, somewhat sadly, setting the spoon neatly down next to his saucer. He knew England as well as he knew himself – or so he thought – and although he had expected it to be difficult to convince him, he hadn’t expected it to be this hard. England felt something other than friendship for him, he was sure of it; he was an expert on this kind of thing. 

“Of course I bloody well am, you damn frog,” England snorted. “God, you must be drunker than I thought.” 

“Ah, c’est dommage. Je me réconforterai de mon échec avec une de tes belles citoyennes. Peut-être avec Mademoiselle Willoughby ou Mademoiselle Beckinsale. Elle m’a tenté depuis longtemps, celle-là. Quelle coquette !” France smirked at the thought. 

“Keep your meaty paws off my famous actress,” England said, picking up his teacup again now that they were back to their usual banter. “See, I knew you weren’t serious. I remember how you were with Jeanne D’Arc. I don’t believe you really loved anyone before or since. You just flit from person to person because you like the sex, you pretentious twat.” 

It was true. François couldn’t deny it, nor did he want to. The part about the sex, anyway. It was fun! But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t want a fixed relationship. It just had to be with someone who he really cared for, and was attracted to romantically. There hadn’t been too many of those over the course of his life. 

Arthur did know that François cared for him… right? 

“Ah, mais j’ai beaucoup grandi depuis ce temps-là,” he sighed. “En absence d’amour, ça ne dérange personne si je m’amuse un peu. Je l’admets, j’aime bien la chasse. Mais Arthur, je te promets que si tu me choisis, je ne regarderais plus aucune autre homme ou femme. Je serais trop fasciné par tes sourcils pour me divertir l’attention,” France laughed.

England missed the point entirely. “Stop talking about my damn eyebrows! Look, this is all very romantic, but I’ve already told you it’s not going to work on me. Can’t we just change the bloody subject already? I really don’t need to know about your weird fantasies of me.” He got rather red in the face as he talked. 

From that alone, France knew, he _knew_ that England wasn’t as indifferent to him as he was pretending. What was the problem?

“J’ai parlé de tes sourcils parce qu’ils ne sont pas romantiques du tout. J’espérais que ça te permettrais de me prendre au sérieux, ” France tried.

“Yeah fucking right.” Arthur said sullenly. He glared at François from under his eyebrows, his mouth set in a frown. France recognized that expression. It meant England wasn’t just angry and on the defensive, but hurt. François couldn’t imagine why this would be the case, because it certainly couldn’t be the eyebrow comments. They weren’t really out of the unusual.

François sighed. For a moment, he considered debating the point one more time. But he was already pushing his luck, and he didn’t want to make Arthur so angry that he would refuse to forget about this by morning. He knew that the friendship they had was precious. He had just hoped for something more… 

“Je suis désolé, mon cher ami. Je ne dirai plus un mot sur le sujet. Oublions-le. J’espère que tu me pardonnes.”

“Uh-huh, I’ll think about it. You should probably go now. It’s late.”

The dismissal was absolute. France was shocked. He had never been kicked out of England’s house like this before. 

“D’accord, ce n’est pas un problème. Merci bien pour le thé. Bonne nuit. ” 

“Yeah, yeah, good-bye, already.”

Under England’s suspicious gaze, France gathered up his coat and his umbrella. Opening the door, he found that it wasn’t raining anymore, so he wouldn’t have to bother with putting the coat back on before he walked out the door. He hesitated, then, turning back to England, who was still sitting on the couch, eyes narrowed. 

François didn’t know what possessed him, but he had to have the last word. “…Juste pour que tu saches, je ne suis pas bourré. Je n’ai rien bu ce soir,” he said softly. 

England stood up. “Get out of my house,” he snapped, his face turning red. Raising one hand, France inclined his head in resignation. England opened his mouth angrily, but before he could yell again, France had slowly and quietly shut the door with a little click. 

He turned away and walked into the cold, damp night, which was suddenly far less beautiful than it had been before.


	4. Part two (English and French version)

“Hey, France, remember that one time you told me you thought I was… beautiful?” England said hesitantly, not meeting France’s eyes. 

France’s heart lurched. “Non, je l’ai complètement oublié,” he said sarcastically, trying to play it cool. The two of them were sitting in France’s living room, a just-opened bottle of red wine between them. The events to which England was referring had taken place about a year ago.

England made a strangled noise in his throat, so France quickly added, “Bien sûr que je m’y souviens !”

“Geez, no need to scare me like that, you jerk,” England complained. Enter his customary scowl. The corners of France’s mouth twitched with painful amused love at the sight of it. 

“Je suis sûr que tu récupéras,” he said, thinking that if anyone was going to be mortally wounded tonight, it would be himself. There were plenty of ways this conversation could go, and some of them did not bear thinking about while sober. 

“Are you sure you weren’t drunk?” England said. 

France sighed. “Oui, j’en suis sur. Il n’y a pas raison de me douter comme ça, tu sais.”

Hesitating again, England finally said, “Do you still feel that way?” 

“Les roses poussent et les roses meurent, mais la beauté est éternelle.” France was having trouble maintaining his nonchalance, but he could go on about roses any time. So that was where he took his refuge. 

“Does that mean yes? Just give me a straight answer, why don’t you?” England made no effort to disguise the irritation in his voice. 

France finally admitted, “Oui, ça veut dire oui. Je t’aime encore.”

Arthur let out his breath in a huff. 

“France.” 

“Oui?”

France’s heart was beating fast, so fast he could hardly stand it. Would England… was he going to… was he going to tell France that he loved him to? Could France believe that such a wonderful thing might actually happen? It was hard to believe. This conversation had been simmering below the surface of their relationship for such a long time now…

“You’re a bloody wanker, you know that?”

Et, c’est fini, France thought dejectedly. England would not be his, so he’d have to forget his feelings and get on with it. Back to chasing various beautiful strangers. Faced with the dismissal of one angry man with bushy eyebrows, that suddenly seemed like a grey and uninteresting prospect. 

“Oui,” was all France could say. 

England looked down at their feet. He was much closer to France now, which didn’t make any sense. France was about to back away respectfully, when England said, “And yet, it seems I have feelings for you anyway.”

“Quoi? Vraiment?”

“No, I like to flirt with everybody and their grandmother, the way you do,” England said, but the caustic bite of his voice wasn’t as harsh as usual.

“Excuse-moi, Arthur. Je n’ai jamais flirté avec la grand-mère de personne,” France blurted out. England immediately made as if to take a step back, so France unthinkingly grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “Mais, mais, attends.”

Swallowing, England peered up at France from under his eyebrows. France released England’s wrist, putting one arm around his waist and using the other to cup his cheek.

“Viens ici,” he said, stroking England’s cheek with his thumb. England’s scowl had melted away, to be replaced with an expression of guarded anticipation, nervousness, and trust, all at the same time. As France pressed their bodies closer together, England slid both his arms around France’s waist. 

England closed his eyes, so France closed the final distance between them and kissed England’s lips, and again, and then England responded and kissed him back. 

A few minutes later, when both of them were panting and flushed, France’s neat curls mussed and England’s shirt untucked, England put his mouth to France’s ear and whispered, “François Bonnefoy, je t’aime aussi.”


End file.
